Birds of a Feather, by Jacqueline Winspear

Anyone who writes a genteel mystery set in Twenties London must count on being compared to Golden Age detective writers, so I won't apologize for doing so. Ms. Winspear follows pretty much all the rules well and writes an intriguing, well-plotted mystery. Even Maisie's reliance on intuition is fair enough, since her intuitions are not unaccountable--indeed, they hardly seem worth the fuss given to them.

And that touches on my chief complaint with the novel, which was that it takes everything so very, very seriously. Not grimly, or darkly. Just terribly in earnest. It felt like a five-hour session with a counselor who wants you to get in touch with your innermost feelings and divulge your deepest hurts so that you can be made whole and all you can come up with is the desire to go get a hamburger.

I don't know whether this is just the author's natural style or she thinks it necessary to the difficulties of depression and post-war stress, but the people who actually wrote and lived during the time seem to have liked things a bit lighter, and to have coped more by laughing at themselves. Personally, I much prefer the occasional wry twist that makes a Christie or a Sayers novel so engaging.

Nonetheless, I did find it a compelling and even enjoyable read. I finished it up with a spatula in one hand, cooking supper. I might pick up another one of her books if it were lying out on a library table. But I probably wouldn't go hunting for it.